


Madame

by My_Alter_Ego



Category: White Collar
Genre: A Daring Con, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Secret Service - Freeform, forgeries, past crimes, political figures
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-17
Updated: 2018-05-24
Packaged: 2019-05-08 07:18:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,468
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14689197
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/My_Alter_Ego/pseuds/My_Alter_Ego
Summary: This three-part story has Neal and Peter teaming up once more to go undercover. However, things are a bit different this time around because Neal is now a free man who has completed his parole.  He’s an “honest” citizen simply doing Peter this favor out of the goodness of his heart. Well, maybe that isn’t exactly true. Neal has a really good reason for helping out the FBI once again. It’s to keep himself out of prison.





	1. A Doppelgänger?

The report came across Agent Peter Burke’s desk early one morning. New York City’s boys in blue had interrupted a bit of illegitimate business between a shady fence and an equally shady buyer of a stolen painting from the Metropolitan Museum of Art. One week before, an audacious robbery had been orchestrated by a thief or thieves in the Big Apple’s venerable gallery near Central Park. These marauders were philistines who had cut oil paintings by van Gough, Whistler, Degas, and Sargent from their frames and made a clean getaway. The Manhattan police had been spread a bit thin that night because of a simultaneous bank robbery in progress as well as a multiple homicide down near The Village. By the time that they arrived at the Met, the perpetrators were long gone.

Now, exactly seven days later, there was some vindication after a snitch had provided some valuable intel. A missing Sargent painting, “Madame X,” was on the underground market and the police quickly sidelined the transaction. They now had the painting, or rather, “a _”_ painting in their hot little hands, but they needed experts to do a thorough examination to authenticate it as the real deal rather than a knock-off by some slick forger. Therein lay the snafu. After meticulous and tedious testing, none of the experts could agree.

Peter smiled because he had an ace up his sleeve. He placed a call to a familiar number and breathed a contented sigh when Neal Caffrey promptly answered.

“Hey, Buddy, did I catch you at a bad time?” Peter asked politely.

“It’s never a bad time for the good old FBI,” Neal answered, and Peter could almost see the cheeky, sarcastic grin on the young man’s face.

“Can we meet for lunch?” Peter responded happily as he named a bistro that Neal favored. “I want to pick your brain, so the meal is on me.”

“I’ll be there with bells on,” Neal teased before he disconnected.

~~~~~~~~~~

There was so much history—a veritable flood of water under the bridge—between an FBI agent and a recently paroled felon on a tracking anklet. They had plucked each other’s nerves for four long years. Not to say that there wasn’t a wealth of good times, as well, that grew into a fondness and tight bond that had never been broken.

Neal had actually persevered and crossed the finish line after his sentence was completed. Peter expected him to take wing and disappear into the vast wide world. Neal surprised everyone by staying in New York, with only the occasional trip abroad. He now owned a little art gallery where he hung his own creations as well as examples from some up-and-coming newcomers. His business must have been doing extraordinarily well for Neal to maintain such a comfortable niche in the upper stratosphere of wealth and privilege. Peter never probed into Neal’s revenue resources. Ignorance is bliss, and he really didn’t want to know and run the risk of losing his friend once again.

Peter waited patiently under a little striped awning at an outdoor table for two of a trendy restaurant on 46th Street. Neal appeared exactly on the dot, and the two exchanged a comfortable hug and back pounding.

“So, how are things at the old Federal grist mill, Peter? Still protecting the good citizens of Gotham City by saving the day and taking down evil, nefarious criminals,” Neal teased.

“Yep,” Peter quipped, “I’m still grinding my way along. That’s why I asked to meet with you today. It’s about a case of authentication, Buddy, and I trust your expertise explicitly. Maybe, once and for all, you could put an end to an ongoing controversy in New York’s art world.”

“Anything you need, Peter. I am at your service, eager to please and assist my former lord and master,” Near bantered.

Peter grinned. He had forgotten how much he missed this mischievous and disrespectful whirlwind who had always kept him on his toes. “We think we have recovered a painting previously stolen from the Met,” he began to explain. “However, all of their experts and ours can’t seem to come to a meeting of the minds regarding its authenticity. They have used all the tools in their arsenals, but it’s been a bust so far.”

“So, I’m guessing that they have already done a microscopic as well as a spectroscopic analysis, and have employed a Woods lamp and infrared reflectography,” Neal mused thoughtfully.

“Um, I would assume that they have done ….. well, all of those things that you mentioned,” Peter answered uncertainly.

Neal laughed. “Just bring the painting down to my gallery, Peter. I may have a few other tricks we could use to solve your problem.”

So, the next day, Peter signed “Madame X” out of the evidence locker and took her with him to Neal’s gallery. A beautiful young woman greeted him when he entered. Of course, she would be stunning, Peter reasoned. That was almost a foregone conclusion in Neal Caffrey’s world. Peter’s former partner had heard the door’s buzzer and immediately appeared, bidding Peter and his art tube to join him in a work area set up at the rear of the salon. After carefully extracting a possibly valuable painting and laying it across a work table, Neal became very focused and quiet—maybe unnaturally quiet. Peter wondered what that was all about.

Nonetheless, Peter waited patiently, swaying from foot to foot, as Neal first used a magnifying glass and then resorted to a jeweler’s loupe as he went over the painting inch by inch. Sargent’s painting, if it was Sargent’s painting, depicted a full-length portrait of a young woman in profile. She was posing in a black satin dress with jeweled straps beside a small wooden table near her right hip. The colors in the portrait were quite blandly monochromatic—all browns and blacks except for the subject’s pale, almost translucent skin and the silver gems which sparkled on her shoulders. A viewer’s attention was immediately drawn to her delicate neck and her décolleté. Peter, with his eagle eye, noted that Neal spent an inordinate amount of time examining the strap on the model’s right shoulder.

“Well, what do you think?” he finally asked impatiently.

Neal put down his tools and perched on a high stool, crossing his arms over his chest. He looked at Peter speculatively before answering.

“Do you know who ‘Madame X’ was, Peter? Of course, you don’t, so let me tell you about her. Madame X was really a young socialite named Virginie Amelie Avegno. An American expatriate, she married a French banker, Pierre Gautreau, in the late 1880s. She became notorious in Parisian high society for her beauty and rumored infidelities. To put it mildly, she was a wild child. Her unconventional looks also made her an object of fascination for artists, including fellow American expatriate, John Singer Sargent. He finally persevered in getting her permission to do the portrait in 1884. That was the beginning of the poor guy’s troubles.

The capricious model actually loved the painting after it was completed and regarded it as a masterpiece. She was as pleased as Sargent when he displayed it in the Paris Salon under the title of ‘Portrait de Mme.’ Unfortunately, not everyone was onboard. Members of Paris’ high society recognized the wayward lady and were shocked and scandalized by the brazenness of her attire. In an effort to tamp down the snobbish criticism, Sargent overpainted the shoulder straps to raise them up and make them look more securely fastened. He also changed the title of the portrait to ‘Madame X.’ But the damage had already been done to the lady’s sketchy reputation. Gautreau claimed that she had been humiliated by Sargent, and he was forced to leave Paris permanently for London taking the painting with him. Eventually, in 1916, the disgruntled artist sold the painting to the Metropolitan Museum of Art.”

“That’s a nice little history lesson, Neal,” Peter said slowly. “Thanks for sharing. However, you and I have a history, too, and I know misdirection when I see it. What aren’t you telling me, Buddy?”

Neal began fidgeting, rearranging some charcoals and brushes without looking up. “What exactly is the question again?”

“Is this painting an original work done by artist John Singer Sargent in 1884?” Peter said between clenched teeth, as he enunciated each word clearly. He now had some grave doubts as well as a nagging suspicion, and those little gremlins were wriggling around in his gut causing mayhem.

“During all of our years together, Buddy, you never once told me an outright bald-face lie. Please don’t start a new trend now,” Peter pleaded.

Neal finally looked up and admitted, “Sargent did not create this painting, Peter.”

“Who did?” Peter asked, although he already knew the answer.

Neal simply handed his former partner the jeweler’s loupe and pointed to the little clear diadem set in the strap above the lady’s right breast. Peter had to squint, but was finally able to visualize the tiny initials, “NC,” etched upon the miniscule flat table of its planes.

“Damn it, Neal! You’re like a child with a Sharpie pen in their hand let loose in a room with white walls. Did you sign everything that you ever did during your illustrious career!”

“Pretty much,” Neal mumbled as he raised his shoulders and shrugged.

When Peter snorted in frustration, Neal tried to justify his obsession. “I was proud of my work, Peter!”

“Well, I’m glad that you had a healthy self-esteem, Neal. However, I’m sure that you are aware that the statute of limitations for art theft is twenty years. You’re still on the hook for this, Skippy.”

“Only if they find out because you tell them, Peter.”

Peter ignored that remark. “When did you swap this out for the real painting, Neal? Tell me the truth.”

“Oh, that was done years ago,” Neal assured his former handler, “long before you took me under your mentoring wing and made me see the error of my ways,” he added with wide, innocent eyes.

Then Peter had another troubling thought. “How many other of your doppelgängers are hanging on the walls of the Met?”

Neal had the grace to look sheepish. “Are you really sure that you want an answer to that question, Peter?”

Peter frowned. “Probably not!”

Peter took a deep breath and tried to regroup. “Okay, Neal, I think there is a workable solution to this dilemma. You just have to retrieve the real painting from the stash in your clandestine Aladdin’s Cave, and then we can return the original to the Met. They won’t know it isn’t the one which they have been displaying over the years. We never have to tell them they’ve been duped.”

“That just isn’t possible, I’m afraid,” Neal began softly. “I don’t have it anymore.”

Peter groaned. “You sold it?”

“It wasn’t as crass as you make it sound, Peter,” Neal objected. “I was actually approached and commissioned to first create a forgery and then swap it out for the real ‘Madame X.’ This patron was quite wealthy and influential, and turning him down would have made for a sticky situation since he somehow seemed to know all about me and my talents.”

“Well, you certainly weren’t listed in the Yellow Pages back then, Buddy,” Peter taunted. “So, if this person knew of your existence and your capabilities, then he, most likely, was on the wrong side of the law as well. Even though it’s now years later, the FBI can say that we got an anonymous tip and we can still bust his ass.”

Neal looked a bit miffed. “Peter, I’ll have you know that my laudable reputation back then didn’t need to be advertised. Even patrons in the upper echelons knew of my remarkable skills. I was the black belt ninja of my craft.”

“Yada, yada, yada,” Peter sniped. “Just tell me the name of the person to whom you gave the painting so that we can get it back!”

“That would be a waste of your time, Peter,” Neal said. “He actually gave it away to someone as a gift not long after he took possession. You see, this man had lofty aspirations, and he reasoned that his stupendous gesture might help him to attain his dream. And it actually worked. He got where he wanted to be and enjoyed his coveted position for over a year before fate stepped in. The unfortunate fellow suffered a stroke and passed away barely twelve months after he left the country.”

“What was so important to him that he was willing to part with a masterpiece?” Peter wanted to know.

Neal smiled slyly as he answered. “He desperately wanted to become a United States ambassador abroad, and his gift did, indeed, pave the way for that vision to become a reality.”

It took a minute for the implication to form in Peter’s mind and he stifled an agonized moan. “There is only one person in our country who has the power to bestow an ambassadorship,” he said with dread.

“Exactly,” Neal agreed. “Now you’re getting the picture. Right at this moment, a past United States President possesses the original portrait of ‘Madame X.’”


	2. A Second Career

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: This story is a fictional tongue-in-cheek fabrication of my mind and in no way depicts actual characters. It is certainly not meant to disparage or denigrate any of our illustrious politicians or past presidents. As we know, all of those principled august persons dutifully adhere to lofty ethical standards and are certainly above reproach.

Later that evening, Neal and Peter were sitting in Neal’s trendy loft in Soho with tumblers of single-malt Scotch in their hands. Peter knew that Heisler beer wasn’t going to cut it tonight. The present problem was too profound for lightweight spirits.

Neal’s new space that he now called home was huge and, just as in his previous residence, afforded him a commanding panoramic view. The exposed rafters soared dramatically, the original raw brick walls lent an air of permanency, and the polished dark hardwood floors added warmth. The décor was minimalistic but had a certain sleekness just like the owner. Peter never ceased to be impressed. However, it wasn’t about design or New York vistas tonight. Both men were focused on a very knotty problem.

“Do you think that the ex-president realizes that he has a stolen masterpiece hanging on his wall?” Peter mused.

Neal’s forehead wrinkled. “I know that a lot of people disagreed with his politics when he was in office, but I don’t think the guy is really a crook.”

Peter snorted. “I’d like to amend that concept. I think a lot of people questioned his ethics as well as his politics back in the day. It really wouldn’t take a great intellectual leap to connect the dots to this caper. If the media got wind of this, it would turn into a friggin’ circus.”

Neal sighed. “Well, I can’t visualize the FBI’s White Collar division knocking on his door one fine day and telling him that he is in possession of stolen merchandise, and would he please be a good sport and give it back. He’d never implicate himself, nor would he want to throw his old crony under the bus even if that dude wasn’t already dead. Our ex-Potus is slick and savvy and would probably just want to bury everything deep. He wouldn’t want anything to tarnish an image that seems to have mellowed over time and is providing him with big bucks. He still does the lecture circuit and his fees are in the thousands when he deigns to appear at a function. I believe I read a quote once where he and the missus claimed to have been broke when they left the White House. I doubt that is still true.”

Peter grimaced and looked miserable. “I’ve really shot myself in the foot because I now know the stolen painting is a forgery. The powers above me are going to want to know why I suspect that it is. I can’t just say that I have a bad feeling about it. That means more experts will get involved. Eventually, somebody will come along to irrefutably verify that it isn’t what it professes to be, and they may even spot your initials. Hell, that expert could even be old Phil Kramer from Washington, and I know you want to keep him at arm’s length.”

Neal sighed dramatically. “Can’t we just pretend, Peter? I can authenticate my ‘Madame X’ as the original and it goes back where it came from with nobody the wiser.”

“No, idiot! If the truth is ever discovered and you go down, that would make me an accessory after the fact, and I certainly do not care to be a guest of the federal prison system.” Peter was frustrated and had thrown his hands up in a “God Help Me” gesture.

“Lighten up, Buddy,” Neal deadpanned. “I may know a few people up in Sing Sing who could show you the ropes and help you become acclimated. They’re lifers, so I’m sure they would still be available as mentors. Then there is another option. We could become cellmates. Wouldn’t that be cozy?”

“Not funny, Neal,” Peter growled.

Neal got up to pour himself two more fingers of the smoky, dark liquor. “I’m thinking out of the box now because circumstances require that I get creative. I propose that one dark night we clandestinely swap out one painting for another. I’ve done it before; I can just re-run the tape and it will be like an instance of déjà vu.”

Peter didn’t like that idea. “Get real, Pal. According to the Former Presidents Protection Act of 2012 reinstituted by President Obama, ex-presidents and their spouses are guarded for life by the Secret Service. It’s going to be impossible to just slip into his home while those paranoid sentries are on duty.”

“Oh, ye of little faith,” Neal teased. “I’m sure we could somehow manage it.”

“When you say ‘we,’ are you alluding to yourself and Mozzie?” Peter asked.

Neal shook his head. “Unfortunately, Mozzie is away conducting some business right now and is unavailable. I intended the pronoun, ‘ _we_ ,’ to mean you and me. We’ve always made a good team in the past. It would be just like old times.”

“Sure,” Peter said sarcastically, “except now we won’t be working within the law. That’s crossing a mighty big line!”

“Not even for the greater good?” Neal wheedled.

“You’re asking the impossible, kiddo. No can do, not even for you,” Peter said adamantly. “Besides, there’s another problem with your harebrained scheme. The ex-president lives in Washington DC and that’s not exactly our stomping grounds. Too much can go wrong because we’re not familiar with the lay of the land.”

Neal had an answer for that. “But his original residence was right here in New York. He and his better half have negotiated a peace accord in their sometimes-stormy marriage and have made it work by living apart. She’s here in the Big Apple and he’s down in DC. We could start our search right in our own back yard.”

“I am not going to be your partner in crime, Neal. I’m not holding a flashlight or a ladder or driving a getaway car. Got it?” Peter almost roared.

“Now, don’t get your panties in a twist, ‘Partner.’ It may not come to that. I think the only burglary tools that we’ll need are dark suits, opaque dark glasses, and little curly wires coming out of our ears. You and I could pass ourselves off as replacement Secret Service drones, and we’d be able to walk right in and have a look-see.”

“What do you plan to do with the real Secret Service men?” Peter asked hesitantly.

Neal was thoughtful. “Perhaps a glitch in the system may result in them being temporarily reassigned to someplace out of the way for a few weeks. Let me think on that for a bit.”

~~~~~~~~~~

It was crazy and stupid, but, nonetheless, Peter agreed to put in for a week’s vacation time at the Bureau. On Monday morning of the following week, Neal tooled by Peter’s townhome in Brooklyn in a black Cadillac Escalade SUV with government plates. Peter practically slunk out the front door attired in a somber black suit and sunglasses. After he had buckled himself in, Neal handed him an ID that looked distressingly real. In return, Peter passed Neal an ear bud and a wire that he had appropriated from the FBI’s stash of technical toys.

“Good Morning, Agent Gointzner,” Neal snickered. “Ready to beard the lioness in her den? I hear she can be less than pleasant, so I hope you have a thick skin.”

Peter raised an eyebrow above his dark glasses and dropped his little bombshell as he stared at his credentials. “So, I’m to assume one of Mozzie’s old aliases?”

When Neal froze for a nanosecond and just peered back at his partner mutely, Peter felt some vindication. “Yeah, I found out about your silly caper down in Little Odessa. While I was trying to pass myself off as a figure-skating coach, you and Mozzie were running a con on Rebecca Lowe/Rachel Turner. That really backfired, didn’t it, Buddy.”

“Let’s not go there,” Neal begged. “It definitely wasn’t my finest hour.”

Peter took pity on Neal and let the tender subject drop. “So, who are you supposed to be for Halloween?” he finally asked curiously.

“I’m very Special Agent, Nicholas Carlisle, at your service,” Neal said with pride.

“Well, ‘Special Agent Man,’ you are not properly prepared for your mission,” Peter taunted as he passed Neal a shoulder harness with a gun.

“I really hate guns,” Neal whined. “Is it loaded?”

Peter rolled his eyes. “Of course, it’s loaded, you fool. Remember, we’re supposed to be protecting a former First Lady from people who may wish her harm. You can’t stop a knife or a bullet with your silver tongue, Neal. You can’t _talk_ an assassin to death!”

It wasn’t long before the two bickering men pulled up behind an identical vehicle parked at the curb in front of a brownstone. Two similarly-dressed men were waiting. Neal sauntered over looking like he had just stepped out of a GQ magazine while Peter buttoned the jacket of a suit that made him look like an undertaker.

“Hey guys,” Neal said with a dazzling smile as he stuck out his hand. “We’re here for the day shift. I’m Nick Carlisle and this is my partner, Earl Gointzner.”

A nightshift detail man spoke up. “Yeah, we heard Simmons and Fredericks got reassigned for a week—something about some sheik from the Middle East coming to Washington for a pow-wow and more bodies being needed for the protection detail. Well, good for them. Those poor guys needed a little respite from ‘Her Haughty Highness.’ She can be a real ball-buster. We’re lucky we get to lurk outside during the night hours. For Simmons and Fredericks, it was much more up close and personal. They had to stick to her like glue every time she went out, and apparently she always had a complaint about something.”

Neal grimaced. “Thanks for the heads-up. I guess my partner and I will try to survive the next twelve hours without causing too much mayhem.”

“I’m already not liking this whole thing,” Peter muttered as they walked up a short flagstone path.

“Hang tough, Peter,” Neal urged quietly. “Just look stern and menacing. You’re good at that.”

When they rang the doorbell of the residence, they were immediately admitted into a small vestibule by a petite middle-aged woman who explained that she was Madame’s housekeeper and personal secretary. She quickly led them to a cheerful little study off the kitchen where they were introduced to the lady of the manor.

Maureen Fitzpatrick was sitting primly behind a small desk writing on some monogrammed stationery. She wore a cream-colored pants suit and had her mousy brown hair pulled back severely into a knot at the nape of her neck. There was a tall glass of what looked like tomato juice, complete with a stalk of leafy celery, beside her right hand. Neal had heard that the lady was a hard drinker and would bet that the morning libation was a Bloody Mary to kick off the day. When the former First Lady deigned to look up, Neal noted the deep creases at the corners of her eyes and mouth. Obviously, she was not into vanity and had not submitted to a plastic surgeon’s scalpel.

The two imposters had discussed their strategy beforehand and had decided that Peter’s age lent some gravitas to the partnership. Since he looked more senior, he would take point.

“Ma’am, my name is Agent Gointzner and this is Agent Carlisle. We will be your temporary Secret Service detail for the coming week until your regular agents return. I think the first order of business is for us to familiarize ourselves with the premises so that we can take note of all means of entry or egress from this house.”

Maureen Fitzpatrick moved her reading glasses slightly down her nose so that she could stare at both men who stood deferentially before her with feet apart and hands clasped. She gave Peter a cursory glance but studied Neal like he was some exotic creature. Finally, her gaze returned to Peter.

“The first ‘order of business,’ Agent Goiter, is for you to ‘take note’ that I insist on being addressed as ‘Madame’ when you find it necessary to speak to me. Is that understood?” she decreed imperiously as she looked at him with no small measure of disdain.

Peter found himself clenching his jaws together. “Yes, Madame, I will certainly remember to do that in the future. And the name is ‘Gointzner’ not ‘Goiter.’”

“Whatever,” she replied with a deprecating wave of her hand. “So, off you go to do your little snooping through my private domicile, but make sure that you do not take any pictures or avail yourself of a little trinket as a souvenir. Are we in sync?”

Peter’s neck had taken on a bright red hue as he struggled to be civil. “Yes, Madame, I think we understand each other perfectly.”

When Neal turned to follow Peter from the room, the lady stopped him with a raised hand.

“Not so fast, young man. I’m sure your partner can find his way around without you. He can fill you in later. Right now, you are to remain here.”

Neal looked at Peter helplessly and wondered if he should genuflect like the subservient knights in ‘Game of Thrones’ when they had an audience with the evil Queen Circe. Instead, he took a deep breath and replied, “Of course, Madame, as you wish.”

The former First Lady sat back in her chair after Peter made a hasty exit and continued to scrutinize her remaining personal agent.

“You look rather young, Agent Carlisle. How long have you been with the Secret Service?”

“Not long, Madame,” Neal replied, omitting the fact that his career had commenced that very morning. “However, rest assured that I am highly trained and will protect you even at the expense of my own life. You are very safe while Agent Gointzner and I are on the job.”

“So, guarding me is a way of getting your feet wet,” she mused aloud, “but Agent Gointzner looks like he’s been around the block a few times. He must have screwed up something big to get this detail of looking after a washed-up old lady like me.”

“Madame, that couldn’t be farther from the truth,” Neal proclaimed earnestly. “You, like your husband, are invaluable personages, and it is an honor to be entrusted with your safety.”

“Agent Carlisle, you are talking to the wife of a former politician. Those clever creatures are experts at dishing out BS, so I can certainly recognize it when I hear it.”

Neal just retuned Maureen Fitzpatrick’s stare and didn’t flinch. Finally, the lady smiled happily. “I think we’ll get along just fine. What’s your first name, Agent?”

“It’s Nicholas, Madame,” he answered quickly.

“Well, Nicholas, here’s my agenda for the day,” she said as she handed him a computer print-out. “We’re going to be very busy.”

~~~~~~~~~~

And that was an understatement. Neal and Peter trailed along after their charge from place to place. They waited patiently at an exclusive hair and nail salon, and then occupied a table for two beside the former First Lady when she lunched with a female friend. They looked like Sherpas as they carried her multiple purchases from Saks. That embarrassing spectacle made Peter cranky.

“If she really was in danger from some assailant or stalker, we wouldn’t have a free hand to even draw our weapons,” he grumbled.

“Suck it up, Buttercup,” Neal admonished. “Or should I say, ‘ _Agent Goiter_ ,’” he teased.

“Not funny, Neal. Apparently, she likes you and hates me. That’s just fine ‘cause I’m not here to win a popularity contest. Nope—I’m just here to make sure I save your ass and mine as well. You can thank me later.”

Later took place in Neal’s loft. “There’s a sizable den on the second floor,” Peter informed his partner in crime. “That’s where I found ‘Madame X’ hanging on the wall amidst a bevy of other beautiful women. I decided to ignore the imperial caveat and took pictures with my phone. Take a gander,” he said as he passed the phone to Neal.

As Neal scrolled through, he recognized a representation of some heavy-duty masterpieces. “This is Goya’s ‘La Maja Desnuda,’ this one is a depiction of Botticelli’s ‘Aphrodite,’ and there’s a bunch of Titians—‘The Venus of Urbano,’ ‘Mary Magdelene,’ and ‘La Bella.’ More contemporary art is represented by the ladies from Erté as well as Sargent’s ‘Madame X.’ Apparently, our past president had a thing about the female body, clothing optional.”

“Do you think they’re original masterpieces,” Peter asked Neal with a concerned expression.

“Not likely,” Neal answered. “Some of these works have been in Italian museums for years, so it would have made a big splash if they were pilfered. These have to be copies.”

“So, okay,” Peter began, “now that we’ve located the target, which isn’t a copy, what’s the plan to swap it out?”

“I’m working on it,” was all that Neal would say.

“Well, work faster,” Peter pleaded. “This little gig isn’t exactly a cakewalk.”


	3. Busted!

Neal’s plan didn’t materialize the second day either because the guys were still playing attentive chaperones. They trundled their responsibility to yoga class, power-walked with her on some Central Park trails, sat a few tables away during another of her three-martini lunches, and then fidgeted in an anteroom when she met with an editor at Doubleday.

The former First Lady was less active in the late afternoons, so Peter and Neal had plenty of downtime. They drank endless cups of coffee in the kitchen and tried to entertain themselves. Peter diligently worked in his crossword puzzle book while repeatedly sighing with frustration at their lack of progress in this caper. Neal ignored him and his obvious displeasure while blithely doodling in his sketchbook.  They were caught in the act later that week when Maureen Fitzpatrick entered the kitchen to speak with her cook. She gave Peter a cold stare.

“Perhaps you can be more productive, Agent, by patrolling the grounds to make sure there is no one loitering nearby just awaiting their chance to cause me harm.”

“Of course, Madame,” Peter said respectfully as he rose and sent Neal a baleful look.

Neal had automatically stood when the lady entered the room. He still had his sketchbook in his hand. It would have been too ridiculously obvious if he had tried to hide it behind his back.

“Let me see that,” Maureen Fitzpatrick demanded as she held out her hand like a teacher who had caught one of her students passing notes.

Neal put on a bland face as he passed the sketchbook over. He knew that he was probably going to be fired on the spot from a job he didn’t really have. He stood ramrod straight with his hands behind his back as the former First Lady slowly leafed through a multitude of sketches.

There was one of June sitting in a brocaded Queen Anne chair in the parlor of her home. Her eyes were gazing into the distance of her memories. She looked elegantly regal yet poignantly vulnerable.

The next page held one of Mozzie with his glasses perched on his head studying a chessboard. Neal had somehow captured his wise intensity as well as his quirkiness by adding a vintage patterned shirt and an ascot at his neck.

Neal had always thought the depiction of Peter and El was one of his best. Beautiful Elizabeth had her eyes downcast demurely while encircled in Peter’s arms. Neal’s partner was staring down at his wife, and the deep devotion and love virtually radiated off the page.

There were also other studies of people—an old woman in the park feeding pigeons, a down-on-his-luck street musician with a guitar and a box filled with coins beside him, and a stressed-out, frowning executive texting on his phone.

Maureen Fitzpatrick handed the book back after her perusal. “You are very talented, Nicholas,” she began slowly. “You have skillfully managed to capture raw emotion in these drawings. It makes me want to know more about these subjects and their lives because they all appear intriguing, each in their own way. Perhaps you are wasting your gift by playing the part of a Secret Service Agent.”

Neal grimaced. “Does that mean that you are dismissing me, Madame?”

“Quite the contrary,” she replied thoughtfully. “Perhaps I am contemplating adding to your responsibilities. I would like you to sketch me, Nicholas, and immortalize my spirit in your drawing. Have you ever worked in oils? Maybe a portrait done in that medium would be better.”

Neal frowned as he said facetiously, “Yes, Madame, I have dabbled in oils from time to time. However, as you know, my temporary tour of duty ends in just a few days. If we had more time together, I would certainly welcome the opportunity to paint your portrait. Since that seems impossible due to my future work schedule, I can give you some names of a few talented artists who could do justice to any work that you commissioned.”

“I don’t think that will be necessary,” the lady said coldly as she left the room.

~~~~~~~~~~

“Neal, we have to somehow move this plan along,” Peter demanded as they drove away from the brownstone later that night. “I’m not getting any younger, you know!”

Neal sighed. “You’d make a terrible con man, Peter. You’d never have the patience for the long game.”

Peter just rolled his eyes. “Even long cons have an eventual ending, Buddy. Any thoughts in that devious head of yours?”

Neal grimaced. “Well, it’s not a complex one, nor is it elegant, but it’s the best I could come up with on short notice. I’m thinking that we should swap a shift with the night guys and that’s when we move the merchandise.”

Peter was thoughtful. “Okay, I’ll sign your version of ‘Madame X’ out of the evidence locker when you set up the shift change. We’ll keep it in the trunk of the car. The clock is ticking, so it has to be soon.”

~~~~~~~~~~

The next day brought more responsibilities. A beautician and a make-up artist had arrived early that morning to prepare the former First Lady for a television taping with a well-known media personality. The interview was supposed to center around the former First Lady’s memoires that were in the process of being edited. It hadn’t gone as well as Maureen Fitzpatrick had hoped. Instead of being an adoring sycophant, the shrewd interrogator had skewed the conversation towards the past President and his rumored dalliances with the ladies.

“So, is this going to be a tell-all book, Mrs. Fitzpatrick? Are the readers going to learn about the man behind the curtain?” the less than circumspect news woman asked.

She then added insult to injury by insinuating that the continuing marriage was a sham since the couple led separate lives in two different cities. Neal and Peter followed in the wake of their seething charge as she left the television studio and held their breaths during the ominously quiet ride home. When they reached the brownstone, the disgraced and embarrassed matron stormed into the house, claimed that she had a migraine, and retired to her bedroom after making certain that everyone knew she mustn’t be disturbed unless there was a nuclear attack taking place in the neighborhood.

Peter and Neal resumed their normal spots in the kitchen. After a couple of hours of complete silence from the upstairs bedroom, Neal decided that it was safe to do a little reconnaissance. He crept into the second-floor den that Peter had described and found “Madame X” amongst a rogue’s gallery of wanton females displaying their bounteous virtues. He was trying to calculate how much time it would take to remove the original canvas from its frame and replace it with his forgery when a sixth sense made him aware that he was no longer alone.

He turned slowly and came face to face with the former First Lady. Maureen Fitzpatrick, eyes blotchy and red, had slithered in on bare feet. She held a bottle of Chivas Regal in one hand and a half-filled tumbler of the amber liquid in the other.

“I see that you have found my husband’s merry little band of tarts,” she sneered. “Are you impressed?”

“Madame, I thought that it was a good time to familiarize myself with the house. I haven’t had an opportunity to do that in recent days,” Neal said smoothly without missing a beat.

“I asked you a question, Nicholas,” Mrs. Fitzpatrick demanded, ignoring Neal’s excuse for his presence. “Are you impressed?”

“These are some exquisite paintings,” he admitted. “I am assuming that the renditions of the masterpieces are all very well-executed copies.”

“And you’d be right,” the lady slurred. “There’s nothing original about any of them, just like my ‘wonderful’ spouse—unoriginal, common, and predictable. People may regard him as an intellectual, but his brain is, more often than not, controlled by his dick. He loves nothing more than being surrounded by tits and ass, and here we have an entire room of it hanging on display.”

At the end of her little tirade, Maureen Fitzpatrick hurled her tumbler at Botticelli’s “Birth of Venus.” Long rivulets of liquor splashed across the canvas and began coursing their way towards the floor. Neal stifled the urge to fling himself in front of “Madame X” to protect the priceless painting if an angry and clearly inebriated woman sent another object flying in her direction. However, it seemed as if the crisis had passed as quickly as it had arisen. A tired and dejected woman sank down on the leather couch in the room and took a healthy swig of Scotch directly from the bottle. She then held it out to Neal.

“Madame, it’s against the rules for a Secret Service Agent to drink liquor while on duty,” he said quietly.

Maureen Fitzpatrick quirked an eyebrow. “Do you never break any rules, Nicholas?”

“I have in the past, but I try not to do that now,” Neal answered honestly.

“Well, good for you, my handsome young knight in shining armor. There should be more of you in the world performing wonderful feats of chivalry and daring instead of babysitting a nasty and resentful old crone like me.”

On the spur of the moment, a plan began to germinate in Neal’s mind. “Madame, may I say that you are selling yourself short. The world should recognize your fortitude and your resilience in the face of adversity and hardship. Maybe your husband needs to see that as well. You belong up on this wall because those qualities depict a real woman, not a facsimile of a Roman deity or an artist’s representation of his muse. You are a marvelously gifted woman of value and strength. The right artist could do you justice and make those qualities shine through his brush strokes.”

“That’s a very flowery speech, Nicholas, but you’ve already told me that you won’t do my portrait,” she pouted.

“If you will recall,” Neal reminded her, “I simply said that there wasn’t sufficient time to properly complete a portrait of you. If I may be so bold, I have another idea, if you are willing to listen.”

“Go on,” the woman commanded.

“To my eye, the most alluring painting in this gallery is the lady wearing the most clothes,” Neal claimed as he hooked a thumb in the direction of Madame X. “She stands out because of that very fact. Of course, some people may view the subject with a lascivious eye and will inevitably find themselves compelled to use their imaginations to visualize what a simple chic black dress is hiding. That adds mystery to art. However, a more astute, sophisticated, and discerning witness will immediately be drawn to the lady’s face which is like a delicate cameo amidst a sea of muted black and brown pigments. The sheer luminosity of her countenance is so very intriguing that it makes her appear much more complex and sensual than every other woman in the room.

Now that I have gotten to know you a bit, I think that you deserve a place up on this wall, Madame. With your permission, I could paint your face over that of the subject in the portrait, not as blandly empty as that of ‘Madame X,’ but rather with a much more refined depth of emotion and passion. I think it would be spectacular and captivating to behold. I could do a few sketches today and complete the actual alterations at home. I promise that I could have the finished product by the end of the week.”

“You want to paint over an existing canvas?” the former First Lady asked skeptically.

“Yes, Madame,” Neal answered quickly. “Through the ages, great painters from the Renaissance onward did that rather routinely. Modern technological tools have allowed authenticators to view previous attempts by all those venerated artists time after time. Actually, it’s a known fact that John Singer Sargent touched up ‘Madame X’ back in the 1800s. He adjusted the bodice of the dress to make it appear more demure and appropriate for the times.”

Maureen Fitzpatrick said nothing for a few minutes. Neal breathed a sigh of relief when she finally cocked her head and mused, “Well, she does have a very good figure.”

The con man now knew the prize was in sight. That was confirmed when the woman held out the Chivas bottle once more. This time, Neal took it from her hand and made a toast. “Here’s to breaking rules and providing a magnificent lady with the prestige that she so rightfully deserves.”

“I think, Nicholas, that you may call me Mrs. Fitzpatrick from now on,” she simpered. “I have found over the years that some people just need to be put in their place initially, and that pompous Agent Gointzner was one of them!”

~~~~~~~~~~

Peter was standing at the curb waiting for their relief team to arrive. He wondered what was taking Neal so long to make an appearance. Suddenly, the person in question came out of the front door carefully carrying a long, rectangular object wrapped in a blanket.

Peter’s eyes widened in alarm. “Did you just nonchalantly waltz out the door with a masterpiece, Neal?” he hissed.

“Don’t look so surprised, Peter,” Neal admonished with a cock-eyed grin. “It’s not like it’s the first time I’ve done exactly that.”

“You just can’t steal the damn thing in broad daylight!” Peter said in horror.

“Calm down, Buddy. I didn’t steal it. The lady of the house actually told me to take it—not permanently, of course. It’s sorta on loan for a bit,” Neal explained as he loaded the bulky thing into the back of the SUV.

Just then, the night shift agents coasted to a stop at the curb. After a parting salute, Peter got inside his vehicle and quickly sped off as if he was the designated wheelman in a getaway car. Neal braced himself with a hand to the dashboard until Peter slowed down.

“You know, Buddy, you were right,” Neal said cheerfully. “Mrs. Fitzpatrick really doesn’t like you. I can’t imagine why that is. You don’t seem the least bit pompous to me. Maybe a little sullen at times, but I wouldn’t call that being arrogant or pompous.”

“Like I care what that woman thinks,” Peter snorted. “The fact is, I don’t like her either. Now, stop with the distracting chit chat and get back on track. Tell me why we now have the original ‘Madame X’ painting in the back of this vehicle?”

“All in good time, Agent Goiter,” Neal teased. “Right now, we need to go to my studio. I have a long night ahead of me and I can fill you in while I do my thing.”

Fifteen minutes later, Peter was helping Neal remove the “borrowed” original masterpiece from its frame. They then rolled it up with delicate hands and placed it safely in an empty art tube that had an evidence label.

“Well, now your gastric ulcer should start healing quite nicely,” Neal said with a smile as he spread his look-alike portrait on an easel and began mixing oil paints on his palette.

Peter sat atop a tall stool and watched in awed fascination as Neal began the transformation. His former partner’s artistic talent never ceased to amaze the FBI agent. It was like watching a magician execute the impossible right before your eyes as people and places suddenly emerged upon a previously empty plane.

It took several hours and many cups of coffee before Neal was satisfied with the end result of his labors. Peter viewed the portrait with a critical eye.

“It’s really good, Neal, actually quite beautiful, but it isn’t her. This incarnation of Her Highness looks soft and tender, not like the evil dragon lady that I have come to know.”

“This _is_ the real woman, Peter, when all the layers of abuse have been scraped away,” Neal explained softly.

“Are you saying that a former United States President physically hurt his wife?” Peter was astounded.

“There are other kinds of abuse, Peter, besides a slap or a kick. When you neglect and ignore someone whom you should love, cherish, and protect, that wounds just as much, and it leaves scars that you can’t see.”

Peter knew that they were no longer talking about an estranged political couple. Neal’s mind had wandered back in time to his childhood when a mother had withdrawn her love and support of a very young boy. She had abandoned Neal as traumatically as a father who had intentionally vanished.

Suddenly, Neal seemed to snap back to the present. “We’ll have to let this dry for a day, at least, before we can mount it into the frame. I can return it to Mrs. Fitzpatrick when our tour of duty as Secret Service Agents comes to an end. Then you and I can walk off into the sunset and resume our real lives. You can also tell the Met that you have a thumbs-up from an expert, so they can again display ‘Madame X’ in their gallery.”

~~~~~~~~~~

Finally, the last day of their charade as political body guards dawned, and Peter and Neal carefully wrapped a new version of ‘Madame X’ in the same soft blanket and loaded it into the SUV. Mrs. Fitzpatrick was eagerly, if a bit nervously, awaiting its arrival. Neal carried the portrait upstairs and suddenly found himself a bit apprehensive as well as he slowly unwrapped it. What if she didn’t like herself in his depiction? He held his breath as he stood back and let her have a look at herself now preserved for posterity.

The former First Lady stared for the longest time without uttering a word, and Neal’s heart began to sink. Then she glanced at the young man and said softly, “It’s magnificent, Nicholas, but it isn’t me.”

Neal looked from the lady standing in the room to another lady in a portrait. Mrs. Fitzpatrick did look different in Neal’s rendering. He had softened her harsh features by eliminating the deeply etched brow lines that appeared when she scowled. He had erased the vertical indentations in her upper lip when she pursed her mouth disapprovingly. Those facets of her face were the battle scars inflicted by all the hurt, disdain, and disrespect that she had endured over the years of her marriage. Neal had sought to paint over all that past heartache with his brushes and oils.

Like a clever Svengali, he had made her skin glow and her eyes sparkle. His Mrs. Fitzpatrick looked calmly serene and contented, but her expression also held a hint of deep wisdom and compassion. The slight curve to her mouth—not really a smile—made it seem as if she knew a secret that was hers alone. That was mysteriously inviting, and it immediately called to a viewer to come closer. This was a gracious, courageous, and lovely woman that you wanted to know.

The silence in the room lengthened until Neal said softly, “This _is_ you, dear lady. An artist’s eyes look beneath the surface and see what is in a person’s soul. I saw the real you behind the façade—the person that you have every right to be but are trying to hide behind a brittle veneer. Now other people will see your strength as well as your gentle kindness, and they’ll afford you the respect and devotion that you truly deserve.”

When a suddenly vulnerable woman began to tear up, Neal added one last enticement. “And to add a cherry on top of the sundae, you’ve got a smokin’ hot body!”

Now, the former First Lady was laughing as well as crying. She pulled Neal into an embrace and whispered “Thank you” in his ear. It was a bit awkward for them both, and she quickly composed herself.

“I don’t see where you have signed your marvelous work, Nicholas. You mustn’t be so modest. You must take credit for this wonderful creation, at least your part.”

Neal had the jeweler’s loupe in his pocket and directed her scrutiny to the little diamond on the gown’s strap.

After Maureen Fitzpatrick took a peak, she began to giggle like a schoolgirl. “Very clever,” she eventually whispered, “ _NC—Nicholas Carlisle.”_

When Neal just shrugged his shoulders and smiled, she added another comment. “You are also a very naughty boy, young man, although I’m not complaining that you have audaciously managed to nestle yourself right over my breast!”


End file.
